


Little Lizzie

by jojoandpicnic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Phantom of the Opera AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojoandpicnic/pseuds/jojoandpicnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeta made many memories in her life and although so many memories faded and turned hazy, the ones containing the Phantom, the Angel, never lost their clarity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Lizzie

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hidekaz Himaruya's "Axis Powers Hetalia," Andrew Lloyd Weber's "The Phantom of the Opera," or Gaston Leroux's "Le Fantôme de l'Opéra." (And another disclaimer to make my shipping heart feel better - I don't actually ship PruHun. Just putting that out there.)  
> Happy reading!

Elizabeta remembers many things from her life. She remembers her childhood home. She remembers her father and her childhood sweetheart, who she had the pleasure of calling “husband” later in life. She remembers her sweetheart running into the ocean to fetch her red scarf that had been blown away by the wind. She remembers spending countless hours with her sweetheart and getting in all sorts of trouble with him. She has plenty of memories of her father playing the violin to her and her friend and her father’s wildly entertaining stories.

 Elizabeta also remembers the day her father died in vivd, clear, and heartbreaking detail. He had been lying extremely still in his metal framed bed, the sheets drawn up to his shoulders, a single candle on the bed side table was the only light besides the barest sliver of moonlight peeking in through the window. “Papa,” she had called whilst timidly approaching the bed.

He had turned his head towards her, a smile slowly creeping its way onto his face. Carefully, he brought a trembling hand from the blankets and held it out for her. “Little Lizzie,” he greeted, voice hoarse and breath wheezing.

“Papa, I don’t want you to go,” she confessed as she grasped her father’s hand in both of her own. At the time, she had thought that she might never let go if it meant that her father could stay. She could barely keep in her tears.

His smile grew sad. “I don’t wish to go,” he said. “But, child, when I die, I will send you the Angel of Music to remember me by.” 

Her tears started flowing. “Papa, I don’t want an Angel if I can’t have you, too.” Her father just smiled, having little energy to do much else. 

He was gone by the morning.

Elizabeta remembers being taken by Madame Bonnefoy, a family friend, to the opera house in Paris where she was trained by the Madame to be a ballerina. She remembers how grand she thought the theatre was; its ceilings towered high over her head, the marbled floors of the lobby felt sturdy under her feet, the golden embellishments along the walls and wondrous angelic statues seemingly came out of her dreams and fairytales. The stage was large and well-built for extravagant and spectacular shows. Ruby red curtains hung heavy from rails high above Elizabeta’s head; they felt soft and warm making her wish she could have a blanket made from them. 

Elizabeta didn’t mind that her living quarters were not as cozy as her old home, she knew that soon enough the opera house would become home. Backstage was definitely unlike the front of the theatre, but it was so full of life, with people working and waving costumes about and moving props back and forth from workshops. Even if backstage was not flashy and fancy, it had its own splendid charm. 

Though, no luxurious statues or candleholders or heavy curtains or rowdy people could surpass the opulent crowing jewel of the opera house — the chandelier hanging above the audience seats. It hung gracefully, elegantly, watching over the stage and house floor like a kind soul. Its hundreds of crystals twinkled heavenly and Elizabeta remembers thinking how fortunate she was to have been lucky enough to see it being reeled down so the candles could be lit. 

She remembers meeting Madame Bonnefoy’s son, Francis, who had been training to be a danseur. She also recalls how infuriating she thought Francis was (though, she never stopped thinking that) and how long it took for them to become the best of friends. From the get-go, he had flirted annoyingly at her and never actually _talked_ about anything.

“ _Ma cherie_ ,” Francis purred, sneaking an arm around Elizabeta’s waist which she immediately pushed away.  They were walking towards the practice room like they always did after lunch. Other dancers were also headed down that way with them, but most knew to steer clear of Francis unless they wanted to be flirted with. “I know you are immune to my charms, but are my sociable skills not adequate?”

She had lifted an eyebrow at him. “I’m not an object,” she told him.

He was quiet for a while, trying to figure out what she meant by that. He had given up, though. “Meaning?” When she looked over at him, he looked genuinely confused. 

She sighed. “Meaning, I’m a person, Francis.” She stopped walking and he stopped beside her. “I’m not yours, I’m not anybody’s. You treat me like I owe you something. I don’t.”

It had taken him a while to absorb the information. In the end, he nodded. “I think I understand,” Francis had said. From then on, it seemed as if he had and a nice friendship blossomed over their love of dance and mutual understanding of loosing their father to death. Elizabeta found that Francis wasn’t too terrible underneath all that flirtatious ego.

She remembers a few weeks after moving into the opera house, Francis told her the terrifying tale of the ghost that resided in the opera house. She remembers the various accidents the Phantom conducted over the years, though she would prefer not to.

Her memory of meeting the Angel her father sent her seemed as if it would never fade away.

When she had first moved into the opera house, Elizabeta made sure to find a secluded room where she could remember her father in solitude. Madame Bonnefoy directed her to an out-of-the-way room in which heavenly angels were painted on the walls and where candles were already set up to burn. It was there, while she was lighting a candle in memory of her beloved father and humming a hymn, that she first heard the Angel singing to her. His voice was soft, deep, promising a lifetime of lessons and direction.

She had felt elated, her spirits raising, like it was really her father that was there in the room with her, teaching her to sing as beautifully as the Angel commanded. 

As she grew into a pretty young woman, she continued to dance in the day with Francis and the rest of the opera company and then light candles and be taught lessons from the Angel in that room at night. Her voice grew strong, confident, and as heavenly as a bell. The Angel praised the voice he had helped shape and mold, the voice he had inspired to sing.

Elizabeta had thought her life could not have gotten better than it was. Her father dying had been the lowest point in her life, but God was smiling upon her now. Especially when He sent her childhood sweetheart back to her.

She remembers how, on that day, the opera’s prima donna, Chiara, had had enough of the mysterious phantom’s cruel happenings and quit. She remembers Francis volunteering her to sing the lead and how the new owners, the Williams-Jones brothers, loved her voice. That first performance was exhilarating and Elizabeta realized how truly happy she felt while singing. Her actual memories of her first performance were blurred from adrenaline, though the feelings of nervousness and then giddiness and accomplishment were very present in them.

After the performance, she rushed to the out-of-the-way room and lit a candle. When she heard the Angel call her name, she immediately thanked him. It became quiet and Elizabeta remembers thinking that she might have offended him by saying her thanks. Then, he faintly whispered for her to wait for him, later, after the rest of the opera house went to sleep. 

Soon after that, Francis found her, asking about her “ _magnifique_ ” voice. “You have a tutor, don’t you,” he had inquired. He took her hand and started to lead her back to the bustling backstage after party. 

For the first time, Elizabeta told Francis about the Angel. “He’s always been there,” she had said. “Ever since Papa died, he’s been here with me. Singing with me.” Her voice had quieted to a whisper, the hand in Francis’s grip trembling. 

Francis frowned, his jaw clenched. “This isn’t like you, Elizabeta,” he said, stopping their already slowing steps. “When did you start fantasizing?”

She shook her head. “I’m not, Francis. He’s here, even now, can’t you feel him?” Instead of answering, he raised a hand to her forehead, checking her temperature. She pulled away, taking her hand back. She had felt affronted. “I’m not sick!”

“You’re as white as a ghost,” he argued. 

Elizabeta looked away from him, drawing her arms closer to her body. “That’s because I’m afraid,” she admitted, voice no louder than a breath. “He scares me. He’s always here; he never seems to leave.” She never told anyone she was afraid of how much control he had over her; it seemed to her that if she were to divulge that information, it would feel all too real and she wouldn’t be able to ignore the fear.

It was silent, so silent. Francis wrapped his arms around her, hugging her though she did not hug back. She pulled away from the hug first; he took her hand in his again and they began to make their way down the hall once more.

Almost as soon as Francis led her safely to her new dressing room, his mother came in and ordered him to go and practice with the rest of the ballet dancers — Elizabeta remembers her being upset with the sloppiness the dancers had exhibited that night. Before Madame Bonnefoy left, she handed Elizabeta an edelweiss with a red ribbon tied around the stem. “He sent a gift,” she had told Elizabeta, her face solemn. Her Angel had sent a gift.

She had had only a moment to put the flower down and put on a coverup before an unexpected visitor, the opera house’s newest patron, knocked and opened the door.

The memory of Gilbert Beilschmidt swaggering into her room with a dozen tulips only moments later, wearing that crooked smile Elizabeta remembered so well from when they were young, was a little hazy, but it was hazy with joy. He had cheekily asked about her red scarf before charmingly reciting the stories her father told them. She was finishing every sentence for him, feeling happier than she had in a long time. 

Elizabeta remembers wondering when Gilbert had become so handsome, when those beautiful reddish-brown eyes had become so self-assured. 

She recalls telling him, “My father sent me the Angel he promised.” 

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Gilbert had agreed before he had waxed poetic about how she had sung that night. Though it had seemed cheap when other people had told her the same, from Gilbert, she found the compliments and fumbles for just the right words incredibly endearing. 

That was when Gilbert killed the mood, which Elizabeta remembers him doing a lot throughout his entire lifetime. “Now, get ready. I’m taking you out,” he had announced.

Any other night, Elizabeta would have been more than happy to go along with Gilbert’s whims. However, her face grew pale and she immediately jumped to try and catch Gilbert on his way out. “Wait,” she called. “I can’t, Gilbert! Not tonight.”

He turned back with that cocky grin on his face. “Why not? Did the Angel say your father didn’t want you out after certain times?” he teased. “We won’t take long. So, let’s go; I’ll get my carriage.” He opened the door and turned back once more to smile genuinely at her. “Little Lizzie.” With that, he had been out the door and gone before Elizabeta could do anything more.

She remembers feeling horrible. What was she to do? She couldn’t abandon her Angel, but she wanted to catch up with Gilbert. Even after years of contemplation, she still wonders if the Angel making the decision for her was fortunate or not.

The sound of the Angel’s powerful voice echoing through the room was difficult to forget. It startled her to her core and she remembers trembling as she asked for the Angel’s forgiveness, for being weak, which he brushed aside without a single thought. She remembers how entranced and enchanted and mystified she was as he called her to him. She remembers seeing her Angel for the first time; his dark hair, his milky-white skin, the mask covering half of his beautiful face, and those striking, stunning violet eyes. She remembers how magical it felt to step through the mirror, to take his gloved hand into hers, as he led her down a hallway with lit candelabras held to the walls by golden hands. She remembers not being able to take her eyes off of him, the masked man who was her Angel of Music. 

He had led her across a lake on a boat, asking for her to sing for him, which she had been more than willing to do. She remembers the feeling of rapture as the boat glided into his lair, as otherworldly candelabras lifted themselves from the lake, their flames igniting as soon as the wicks were out of the water. She remembers her own voice ringing around the cave, how wonderful it had sounded, and how that the sound had been only made possible by her Angel. 

Elizabeta went along dazedly as he helped her out of the boat and preceded to serenade her about the music he wished for her to understand, the music he had created, the music that mesmerized her. She had never felt so overwhelmed in her life. It became too much; her consciousness left as he continued to sing.

She remembers waking up there, in his bed. She remembers watching him, absorbed with the spellbinding melodies that flowed from his fingertips and through the piano overlooking the lake. She remembers the itching curiosity that overcame her to pull the mask from his face, to see the entire face of her Angel. There was a distinct memory of thinking “His face must be alluring, like his eyes.” The brief glimpse she got of that twisted, scarred, destroyed face made her feel more disgust than she had thought she was capable of. How could her Angel look this way?

He had blown up at her, cursing her, _scaring_ her. And then, she remembers feeling pity, sympathy, guilty. This poor creature had been shunned by everyone he had ever met, had been pushed away by society into this underground cave, always longing for kindness and compassion.

Though she still trembled, Elizabeta picked the mask up from where it rested on the ground, from where she had dropped it from shock, and slowly extended it out for the Angel. When he looked at her, holding out his mask as a truce, Elizabeta felt her heart breaking. How did he manage to look so small and fearsome at the same time?

She remembers how carefully he took his mask back and how kind he was to her when he led her back to the opera house.

When Francis found her, pale and bewildered, he cried out in relief. She remembers the bone crushing hug he gave her, how quickly he blathered on in French about how he had worried about her, how he missed her, how he worried and worried and worried. Madame Bonnefoy had found them like that, Francis practically crushing her in his arms and blabbering in incomprehensible French with tears streaking his face and Elizabeta hugging him back as best she could. The Madame ordered she rested, having an inkling of an idea of where Elizabeta had been all night. Francis left her side after much insistence.

Later, Elizabeta remembers being given the silent role in the new opera to appease Chiara and she remembers being okay with that. She had no problem. So why did her Angel, who everyone else called the Opera Ghost, seem so troubled by Chiara having the lead? Why would he take Chiara’s engaging voice from her? And, even scarier, why would he hang that stage hand? What had the stage hand done?

She remembers doubt started clouding her mind. An Angel would never kill, yet, her Angel had murdered. Her Angel was the Opera Ghost everyone feared. She ran, Gilbert following her to the roof.

“Elizabeta,” she remembers Gilbert exclaiming, grabbing her arm. “Calm down! You’re fine.”

Was she? “The Phantom,” she tried to say, tried to explain.

“Just a dream,” Gilbert said. He tugged her into his arms, trying to shake her from whatever memories were haunting her then. She cannot remember what they were, but she remembers that they had felt real at the time. Like she was reliving them.

Even though Gilbert had just assured her that the Phantom was a dream, it didn’t feel like a dream when she heard him call out for her. A soft, chilling “Elizabeta” carried on cold winter wind that she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget. She still hears it when she sleeps; it haunts her dreams.

She recalls clutching Gilbert closer, shivering without the help of the chill of the wind. Gilbert held her closer and whispered sweet-nothings in her ear. Elizabeta wanted nothing more than to believe in every word he said. She remembers how warm his declarations of love made her feel, how she had never wanted the moment to end. She remembers the way she melted in his arms when he kissed her; Gilbert’s kisses were sweet, tender, passionate and held such wonderful promises of every happiness she could imagine. She remembers leaving the roof to return to the performance with the grandest smile upon her face and Gilbert beaming down at her as he led her to the stage. 

“I love you,” he had said one last time as he squeezed her hand before letting go so she could perform. She remembers wishing she didn’t have to so she could stay with Gilbert all night.

There were no other interferences in the performance, but Elizabeta and everyone she knew could never shake the memory of the bows, of the Phantom returning. Elizabeta remembers watching in absolute horror as the magnificent chandelier above the audience came crashing down. She never forgets the sounds of the audience’s screams as some are crushed and as others catch fire from the candles. She remembers the smell of burning flesh. She remembers staying rooted to where she had been standing on stage before Francis pulled her away from the scene, sprinting to get outside and away from the fire.

Elizabeta wishes that was the end, but there are still many things that she can remember. She remembers Gilbert giving her a ring to symbolize their engagement; her smile hadn’t quite reached her eyes when he had handed it over and he knew, but he understood. She remembers the new chandelier being installed, even bigger and more breathtaking than the last one. She remembers the Phantom did not come back, though she knew that could only last so long.

The day he returned, it was the opera house’s annual masquerade. The entire theatre was lit up with jubilant energy for the celebration of the new year. The Williams-Jones brothers, dressed as a skeleton and the Phantom, were welcoming people into the newly reconstructed opera house, promising a very excitable year to come.

“No more mishaps,” Alfred, the older Williams-Jones brother, had said.

“Everything is in tip-top shape,” Matthew, the younger one, chirped. “We even have a new chandelier!”

She remembers thinking they sounded too cheerful for managers who had recovered from a fiery scandal only months older. People had died and it seemed as if they were ignoring those deaths.

Elizabeta and Gilbert arrived, she as a glittery princess and he as a militaristic prince, when the party was in full swing. She remembers enjoying everyone’s artistic and creative costumes. All around the ballroom were clowns, animals, fairies, and even a few monsters dancing in a myriad of colors; some clowns were a rainbow themselves. And the dancing. She remembers dancing with Gilbert; she never failed to love dancing with Gilbert. She also remembers arguing with Gilbert.

“It’s an engagement,” Gilbert had asserted when she refused his kiss. They were situated behind a pillar, hidden from the view of most guests. “Nothing will happen if I kiss you in front of our friends. They’ll be happy for us.”

Elizabeta remembers feeling bad for rejecting him, but something about the night set her off, like something was going to happen. She reached up to hold the ring hanging on a chain around her neck. It had become a comfort to her in the time she had it. “I know, Gilbert,” she said quickly. “But, please —” He had cut her off with a wave of his hand.

He sighed in resignation. “Let’s just dance, Lizzie.”

So they had danced some more. Though, this dance was cut short. She remembers when the first person spotted him, how their loud gasp echoed through the ballroom. She remembers looking up the grand staircase to see him dressed in red, a skeletal mask covering his entire face. He had a sword at his side and a black folder in his hands.

He prowled down the stairs like he owned them, which, according to him, he did. His voice reverberated down to Elizabeta’s bones; she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She remembers the Phantom announcing the new opera he had written called _Don Juan Triumphant_ , remembers him throwing the score towards the Williams-Jones brothers, both of whom fumbled to catch it. She remembers when the Phantom’s unforgettable eyes found their way to hers. She remembers he began criticizing their male lead, Antonio, on his weight, then on Chiara for her distasteful acting, and finally he had come down the stairs far enough to be standing in front of Elizabeta. She did not remember when Gilbert had left her side, only that he had, and she remembers wishing for him to appear at her side to protect her from the devilish Angel before her.

She remembers how coldly he gazed down at her. She remembers how he had hissed at her after a lengthy silence, claiming that she belonged to him. He grabbed her ring and ripped the chain from her neck before disappearing in thin air. Out of nowhere, Gilbert appeared and jumped down into the trapdoor the Phantom had. 

As soon as the door shut on its own in a resounding _shthack!_ , the masquerade guests started to frantically leave. Elizabeta had been one of the first to bolt from where she stood. Adrenaline flowed freely through her body; she felt anxious, scared, and almost numb. She had burst into her room and collapsed on her bed, trying to slow her breath. A few minutes later, Francis bounded his way into her room and immediately went to sit with her.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “You don’t belong to him,” he had said, determined and forceful. “He can’t control you.”

She remembers wanting to believe him; the only problem was that she didn’t.

Later that night, after Francis left, Gilbert returned to Elizabeta and slept outside her door. She remembers he did that for a while.

She remembers when Madame Bonnefoy told her she was to be the female lead of _Don Juan_. She remembers being horrified, especially when she went to find Gilbert and the managers of the theatre, only to walk into a heated argument between the three of them, Chiara, Madame Bonnefoy, and Antonio.

“ _Enough_ ,” Elizabeta shouted at them. She remembers Gilbert quickly strode to be by her side, to maneuver her into a chair. She remembers looking up at her fiancee and begging to be taken away, to not be forced to sing, to not betray her Angel of Music. “What happens to me if I agree to play this part?” she had asked, gripping Gilbert’s arms. Her stomach was rolling, her skin clammy. “Please, I can’t do this.”

Gilbert had removed on of his arms from her grip. He moved a stray strand of hair from her face before cradling her cheek. Earlier, he had said that the managers could not make her agree, but now he was urging her to. “Elizabeta,” he had said gently. “Everything rests on you.”

She remembers searching in his eyes for a chance, a bit of hope that she could cling onto to maintain her decision of saying no, to know that he would side with her. She never found one. “I can’t,” she told the people in the room one last time before fleeing.

She recalls she showed up for practice anyway. Her duty overpowered her pride. In no way was she happy to be singing now.

After the horrid practice, she left the opera house to visit her father. She remembers that she hadn’t visited him in a long time. She needed guidance and, though he was dead, she trusted her father to send her a sign from Heaven.

She remembers arriving to the cemetery — a large, bland, cold piece of land that only made people feel more sorrowful than necessary — and lamenting how her father had promised her an Angel. She remembers standing before her father’s grave. “I don’t understand, Papa,” she said to the grave. “Is he the Angel of Music you promised? I can’t imagine that he is the one you sent for me. He’s _killed_ people, Papa.” Elizabeta’s breath caught. She struggled to keep her emotions in check, but it wasn’t long before she collapsed to her knees, sobbing. “I wish you were here,” she continued, voice muffled by her hands. “Then none of this would have happened. How could I have said good-bye to you? How can I say good-bye to you now? I don’t want to leave you; I want to stay here.” Her hands had lowered and she gazed tearfully and dejectedly at the headstone, wishing for her father to respond.

Her father never responded. Instead, the Angel’s voice came to her from above the mausoleum. She recalls the Angel signing to her, singing that hypnotizing melody of his. He was luring her into his trap again and she was letting him. “Surely,” she remembers thinking, “this is the sign Papa has sent.”  

It was Gilbert who shook her out of her stupor. She remembers berating herself for getting ensnared in the Phantom’s trap. He was furious; he wanted her to be his and she knew it would be so easy to give into the Phantom, but with Gilbert’s hand in hers, she knew that the part of her that wanted to give in to the easy way out was small. She wanted her freedom, no matter how hard the road to get it would be. As she and Gilbert fled as fast as they could from the cemetery, the Phantom’s fiery tricks blazed behind them, burning through the desolate trees.

Gilbert had ordered for the police to be present during the performance of _Don Juan_. Elizabeta had not known whether to be comforted by their presence or to be even more alarmed and anxious. She watched as they situated themselves at every exit, in the orchestra pit, at the sides of the stage. When Gilbert declared “This is war,” Elizabeta wanted nothing more than the night to be over and done with.

Why had this happened to her? To this opera house? What had they done to deserve this?

The discordant notes that opened _Don Juan Triumphant_ were the notes that played in her nightmares. Whenever the mindless chatter and background noise around her wherever she went seemed to grow above polite volume, the notes were there, playing, resonating, instigating panic and anxiety and unease in her so badly, so fiercely, that Elizabeta was loathsome to go anywhere with a large crowd. Those notes were all the hate, frustration, agitation, and sorrow that the Phantom felt in his life. She remembers that she was ashamed that she had helped fuel the inspiration for those hideous notes.

She remembers strutting on stage, faux bravado carrying her through the practiced movements, brain on autopilot as she sang. She hadn’t wanted to be there. She hadn’t wanted to be “the ace,” or the bait, or whatever she was. She had wished to be a chorus girl again, but without all of this madness, without her life on the line.

When Don Juan made his appearance back on the stage, Elizabeta felt like vomiting. She took a moment to compose herself, prepping herself to continue on. She hadn’t even needed to turn and see him to know that it was not Antonio under that cloak. Even now, she remembers his voice. She remembers how he went along with the role of Don Juan, how she went along with him, though she restrained from losing herself to him once more.

She remembers her futile attempts to alert the police at the side of the stage, to alert the Williams-Jones brothers, to alert Gilbert, but it was not until the end of the song when she pushed the hood of the cloak off of the Phantom’s head did anybody realize who had been with her on stage.

She also remembers how the Phantom looked betrayed and horribly exposed when the audience gasped at the scene.

When his surprise left, he tried to reel her back to him, pressing a ring into her palm, eyes pleading and vulnerable. Elizabeta hadn’t wanted to play his game anymore. Rashly, she lurched forward yanked the mask from his face, revealing him. The audience members close enough to see screamed in fright, disgust, outrage. The brief flash of animosity upon the Phantom’s face was the only warning Elizabeta got before he started to drag her away, using another trick to escape the men pointing guns and chasing after them.

Every action he made, every word he said was laced in unfiltered anger. She knew that she shouldn’t have been making equally as terrible remarks back at him, but she herself was angry and fed up with her situation. “You can’t use a mask to cover up the wickedness in your soul,” she had told him bitterly. He went to respond, but she turned away before he could say anything.

She remembers the relief she felt when Gilbert sloshed his way into the Phantom’s lair, too. She remembers how hope had flooded her mind only to be smashed to pieces moments later. She remembers her distress as the Phantom snuck a noose onto Gilbert’s neck and pulled it tight. The memory of helplessness never fails to upset her.

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeta,” Gilbert had gasped out, waisting his breath as her mind reeled. The Phantom demanded she choose between them; save Gilbert by being with the Phantom, or choose Gilbert and have the Phantom kill him. 

Tears had threatened to escape the corners of her eyes. This was it for her, this was all that was left for her. Unhappiness. How could her former Angel expect her to love him when all he had caused her was unhappiness? She had never felt so helpless. She wanted to hate him, wanted to curse him, but she just couldn’t comprehend how someone had so much hostility and malice for the world. The two men just watched her, bickering their hate for one another, as she broke down in sobs, having not the faintest clue on how to proceed. She barely remembers asking, “Angel, have you no mercy? What has anyone done to deserve this?” She remembers him barking and urging her to make her choice and she remembers not wanting to.

She remembers when she was young and had been fooling around with Gilbert in the kitchen. They had been making believe sword fights. He had knocked the wooden ladle she had been using for a sword out of her hands with his spatula, so she had picked up a pan from the stove. She had always laughed when looking back on the memory of his surprise and hurt when she had accidentally swung too close to his arm and hit him with it.

She remembers wishing for a pan in that moment, to fight her way out of the situation, though she knew that she could never raise a hand against the Phantom. She could never sully his face beyond how it already looked.

The pain of having to choose was unbearable because there had been no other answer for her. She loved Gilbert too much to let him die. The tears had stopped flowing by the time she made her way to where the Phantom was standing. She had taken a deep breath to calm her nerves long enough to tell him that she chose him and, before she could change her mind, kiss him.

He stiffened. She could feel him do so under her hands, which had come to rest on his chest. She ignored the nausea in her stomach and kissed him as compassionately as she could muster. She kissed him and kissed him and with each kiss she tried to convey to him why she had chosen him. There was a different message for each kiss — in another life, she could have loved him the way he wants her to; she had only chosen him to save Gilbert; his plans were misguided and only made him more pitiful; she remembers thinking “please, please, please, let us go.”

She was happy her eyes had been closed; when she pulled back, she caught the hurt expression on Gilbert’s face that made her want to take her kisses back. The Phantom was silent, staring down at her with wonder and awe, like he hadn’t actually expected her to pick him. Then the wonder and awe morphed until his face became blank and unreadable. He stepped away from her, reaching for the rope around Gilbert’s neck. For a paralyzing second, Elizabeta feared he would end Gilbert’s life anyway; instead, the Phantom loosened the noose and brought it carefully back over Gilbert’s head before sullenly walking back towards the heart of his lair.

Gilbert ran as quickly as he could to her, taking her in his arms as he watched the Phantom apprehensively. She remembers that the Phantom no longer looked very interested in them anymore; he told them to leave and never return. Gilbert had been more than happy to comply, dragging her towards the boat. She stopped, though. Gilbert had been confused as he watched her turn back towards the Phantom.

Hesitantly, timidly, Elizabeta approached him. He lifted his head from gazing down at his music, perplexed at why she had returned. Slowly, she handed the ring he had given her back to him. He took it and stared at it for a long time. When his lovely violet eyes had returned to hers, they held such bitter sweetness and longing. “I love you,” he had told her.

She had shook her head, smiling briefly, sadly. “I don’t even know your name.”

She remembers him looking back down at the ring in his hand. She remembers thinking that he wasn’t going to respond. But he did. “When I was young,” he had said, “they called me ‘Roderich.’”

She remembers he never looked back up at her. Regardless of that, she had nodded and said, “Good-bye.” She was never able to say his name. 

She remembers leaving with Gilbert on the boat after that. She remembers running into Francis, who had been with the police on their way to arrest the Phantom. She remembers telling him to turn back, but he hadn’t.

She remembers years passing. She remembers her wedding. She remembers the births of her children. She remembers holidays, anniversaries, celebrations. She remembers moving to Germany with Gilbert and their family. She remembers getting a job as a chorus girl at the local theatre. She remembers books, new inventions, politics, and so many other things. 

She recalls once, when her daughter was grown and had a child of her own, she asked her mother in a letter, “Would you like to go to the Paris Opera House with me? They have a new production, a popular one.” Her daughter had moved to France with her husband some time ago; Elizabeta missed her everyday.

Though she missed her daughter, she wrote back, “No.”

Her daughter had been confused, but that was understandable. She and Gilbert had made the decision to keep information from them — about a year’s worth of useless, scary information. Even without that mutual agreement, Elizabeta had vowed to never return to the opera house.

Elizabeta made many memories in her life and although so many memories faded and turned hazy, the ones containing the Phantom, the Angel, never lost their clarity, never left her.


End file.
